


hey, heartbreaker!

by eurydiced



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bisexual Prompto Argentum, Blind Ignis Scientia, But also, Christmas Fluff, FFXV Secret Santa 2020, Gay Ignis Scientia, Halloween, Lesbian Cindy Aurum, M/M, Minor Cindy Aurum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Prompto Argentum Has ADHD, Punk Rock, Road Trips, also overly detailed descriptions of clothing that would make the author of my immortal cry, and plenty of ignis appreciation, because this is self indulgent as hell, excessive amounts of tattoos and piercings, i say minor they're KINDA major they're just not at the forefront, not nsfw at all but prompto is a little thirsty ngl, prompto's ongoing bisexual heart attack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydiced/pseuds/eurydiced
Summary: when prompt scores his first job as a gig photographer for world of ruin's lucian tour, he sets himself three rules: do not screw this up, speak when spoken to, and absolutelydo not, underanycircumstances, doanything elseto irritate the band's unfairly hot manager-slash-keyboardist-slash-accidental-model.no matter how stupidly, distractingly well-coiffed his hair is.[merry christmas, jooliart!]
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45
Collections: FFXV Secret Santa 2020





	hey, heartbreaker!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jooliart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jooliart/gifts).



> merry christmas from your ffxv twitter secret santa, [@jooliart](https://twitter.com/jooliart)!! you asked for a punk/rock band au (ft. something warm and cosy + promnis + cindyfreya) and i'm here to deliver. i've never written promnis before but this was a good excuse and a LOT of fun :0 i hope i captured them well enough, and i hope you like it! i also took inspiration from your wonderful art, i hope you don't mind! (see [exhibit A](https://twitter.com/jooliart/status/1333118277741113349), [exhibit B](https://twitter.com/jooliart/status/1292521749834272768), and [exhibit C](https://jooliart.tumblr.com/post/629180294124191744/theyre-rockin))
> 
> as you can probably tell from the........frankly monstrous word count..........this got away from me to a degree that i did NOT expect or budget my time for :') so i decided to split it into two parts so that i could get at least half of it out before the secret santa deadline!! part two should be out before long! ~~i swear i'm not a tryhard i just got carried away with the premise rip~~
> 
>  **cw:** alcohol, passing mentions of piercing needles / facial piercing, passing mentions of underage drinking and throwing up; nothing heavy or particularly angsty

The snakebites stung, but Prompt couldn’t leave them alone. Call it the killer combo of anxiety and ADHD, but he couldn’t keep his tongue from worrying the two fresh rings around his lower lip, black and slightly lopsided, and tried not to think about words like _infection_ or that it probably hadn’t been the _smartest_ idea to stab his own face with a needle over the bathroom sink to save money. Twice.

Correction: to wheedle _Cindy_ into stabbing his face with a needle (twice). ‘Cause, as it turned out, his famous steady hand deserted him when he needed it most.

“ _Mr Argentum._ ”

Prompto snapped to attention with a sharp, audible intake of breath. Mister Tall-Not-So-Dark-and-Tenebraen was frowning in his general direction, and Prompto was so, _so_ glad the man couldn’t see his face light up like a Shivatide tree with embarrassment.

“Mr. Argentum,” Ignis Scientia said, “are you listening?”

“Yes, si— uh. Yes. I am. Sorry.” Shit, had Ignis asked him a question? Had Prompto been quiet too long? Or maybe Noct’s friend was psychic, and Noct omitted that oh-so-little detail just to fuck with him. Yeah, that sounded likely. Prompto pulled his shoulders back and tried to re-train his attention on the man in front of him, tangling his fingers under the table to stim quietly, though the sharp lights of the old-fashioned diner were starting to feel a little like a knife to the brain.

Ignis released a little breath through his nose. A—sigh? He thought it was a sigh. The man didn’t seem all that, uh, happy with him so far, so that’d track, if it was a sigh. Ignis clasped his hands atop the table next to where his white cane lay folded. They were wrapped in fingerless leather gloves; his nails were painted as immaculately as the rest of him, as poised as a Baroque original, all muted, dark hues and sharp angles against the harsh whites of the diner. Not a single oil-paint-stroke of his dirty blond hair curled out of place. There was a cluster of roses inked onto his neck and rows of silver studs in his ears, but Prompto was having a hard time trying to imagine this guy with his cut-glass Tenebraen accent—uh—shredding on a guitar or headbanging or yelling into a mic at a pulsing crowd, or whatever it was he did in the band. Noct had mentioned it, probably, but Prompto’s shit brain had the retentive power of a sieve. Prompto twisted the leather band around his wrist. Anyway. What kind of punk rocker shows up for lunch in a _dress shirt?_

His eyes fell to the tattoo again. The roses were wine-dark and elegant, creeping up over the neck of his shirt, and some errant part of his mind wondered how far the tattoo went.

“—I do for the band?”

Prompto snapped his shoulders back again, face burning. _That_ was exactly why he preferred to let his attention wander— _away_ from the man in front of him—because there was nothing more distracting for Prompto right now than trying to focus past the sharp cut of Ignis’ jaw and the curve of his Roman nose and the suggestion of muscle under his whole _corporate goth_ aesthetic.

He was about to fuck up a golden opportunity because he couldn’t keep his stupid bisexual heart attack in check.

Prompto trained his eyes on Ignis’ dark shades. _Stay._ “He said you’re the band manager?”

“Correct,” Ignis said. Prompto felt the familiar relief of bluffing his way through being called on in class. “I’m also our keyboardist.”

A punk—keyboardist? Alright. That didn’t _sound_ right, but Prompto didn’t know enough about punk to dispute it. He laughed nervously. “ _And_ you look after Noct? Wow. That, uh, sounds like a lot of work, huh?”

“Some days more than others,” Ignis said, and Prompto’s smile slipped. _Oh Gods. He’s talking about me._

Ignis rubbed his eyes under their shades. Said, “Apologies,” in a tone too carefully neutral for Prompto to read. “I had little sleep last night.” Then he cleared his throat, straightened, clasping his hands in front of him again. When he continued, his voice was brisk: “As World of Ruin’s manager, it’s my responsibility to ensure this tour proceeds smoothly. Noctis is insistent that we hire _you_ , specifically, as our gig photographer. He tells me you knew him from school?”

“Y-yeah!” Prompto’s knee had started bouncing under the table. He pressed down on it. “Me ‘n’ Noct go way back. Not as far back as you guys I think? But—we hung out a lot in high school. We were kinda best friends, actually. We just fell out of touch after Noct went to university and I just, got _busy_ with life and my jobs and everything, and I can be kinda distractible, you know? I just forget to call, ha.” Wait. Shit. “I mean! Not when I’m on the job. You can trust me, uh, to stay on task during the gigs. Photography’s my _thing_ , I get real in-the-zone when I’m doing it, so…”

 _Oh my Gods, shut up._ Prompto bit his tongue, watching the furrow in Ignis’ brow.

“I see,” Ignis said, which had to rank among Prompto’s top five _least_ favourite responses to him babbling like a dumbass. “And he ran into you once more, doing photography at a local concert.”

“Yeah, Lady A and the Turncoats.”

“Did you know that band is scheduled as our opening act on the Steyliff leg of the tour?”

“No shit?” Prompto blurted, his periwinkle eyes blowing wide. Then he blanched, grimaced. “Uh. Sorry. It’s just—cool.”

Ignis’ elegant eyebrows climbed his forehead. But—thankfully—he just coughed, and continued. “Yes. Well. I trust I’ll be able to ask them for a reference?”

Prompto blinked. “Reference?”

“Yes. You _were_ hired by Miss Highwind and her band, correct?”

“Um,” Prompto said, stomach sinking. The longer he sat here, the more it felt like he’d been called to the Principal's office. “No, I—it wasn’t a professional thing. I never, like, met the band? I was just, uh, a fan. And I wanted to take photos. And Noct ran into me there.”

The furrow in Ignis’ brow deepened. “I see,” he said again, more slowly. Prompto’s stomach was now in freefall. “Then is there anyone else I might contact for a reference? Or a portfolio?”

“I have a Kingstagram!” Prompto said a little too quickly, scrabbling for his phone. Dimly, he was aware that his anxiety was getting the better of him again, and also that he was also powerless to stop his brain from hurtling down that track with busted brakes. “For my photography! Noct knows it. I could show you now, my—um. I mean.”

If Ignis’ eyebrows climbed any higher, they’d vanish into his perfectly-coiffured hair.

Prompto sat across from him, phone sitting uselessly in his hand, face burning. Feeling like an asshole, that it hadn’t taken five minutes for him to forget the whole _blind_ thing. He mentally kissed this entire gig goodbye—after having it _handed_ to him on a silver platter.

Fucking Six. He was never gonna be a photographer.

“I’ll have the others review it later,” Ignis said evenly.

Prompto was spared from having to respond by the waitress’ arrival, like holy intervention, with two black coffees and a _sorry for the wait_. Ignis thanked her, taking a sip as she hurried away. “ _Passable,_ ” he murmured to himself, before downing the coffee with more zeal than Prompto had seen from him since they’d gotten there.

He did look a little—peaky? But then, Prompto didn’t know the guy well enough to tell. If there were shadows under his eyes, Prompto couldn’t see them, though he snatched a glimpse of Ignis’ eyes over his glasses: a sort of pale, clear green. Like grass, under the first dusting of winter frost, glittering faintly at quiet touch of dawn.

_Help._

Prompto had never been a black coffee guy, even if his stomach weren’t threatening to bail on him. He warmed his hands on the mug and tried not to think about how, when the waitress had taken their order, he’d panicked and said “Same!” a little too loudly and that, in retrospect, was probably the beginning of the end.

Well. This was already awkward enough. Might as well bite the bullet.

Prompto swallowed, turning the mug of coffee in its dish. “Hey. Can I call you Ignis?”

Ignis paused. “Certainly.”

“Ignis. Is this a job interview?”

Finally, Ignis’ stoic expression cracked: surprise blinked across his face, and somehow that loosened something in Prompto’s chest. The knot of anxiety there. Just a little. “Essentially,” Ignis said. “Though hardly a very formal one.”

“Cool. Could you, uh, warn a guy next time?” Another nervous laugh. “Kinda feel like you caught me with my pants down here.”

Ignis set down his mug. “What did you think this meeting was?”

“Um. I don’t know? Just, like, a chat or something. I mean, the way Noct talked about it, I—I kinda figured this wasn’t gonna be a super formal thing, and that Noct had already decided. I already booked time off work and everything. Like, that _really_ was not easy.”

Maybe that was on him. Maybe Prompto should’ve known better than to make major life decisions on the hazy warmth of booze, passing a bottle between him and his old-best-friend-turned-local-punk-rock-icon on Noct’s bedroom floor the way they had when they were teenagers, drunk on that old, familiar, we’re-sixteen-and-we’re-fucking-immortal bravery as much as the alcohol. But it had been so _easy_ , the way he and Noct had slipped back into their old camaraderie at Noct’s place after the Lady A gig, and the breezy way Noct had broached the idea: _Sure, we’ve already been throwing around the idea of taking a gig photographer with us. You’ve always wanted to do it professionally, right? This’d be a perfect place to start! Oh, yeah, Iggy won’t mind. I’ll work on ‘im._

And maybe he’d just liked the idea of having something _big_ to look forward to for the first time in months.

Whatever it was, Prompto hadn’t questioned it when Noct brought the idea up again the next day. In retrospect, maybe that was a failure of self preservation.

Ignis tipped his head at him for a long, long moment. Suddenly, he looked tired again. “I’d assumed photography was your primary line of work.”

“Uh, no? I mean, not _yet_ , but—” Prompto scratched his neck. “Someday! It’s what I’ve always _wanted_ to do, and I do it on the side. Whenever I can. I—y’know, taught myself, and saved up for all the tech. It’s pretty much all I do in my spare time. It’s just, you gotta pay the bills, right?” He almost added _not all of us have a rich dad to pay ‘em for us_ , but caught himself; he’d stuck his foot in his mouth enough times today and something told him that wouldn’t fly as well here as it would with Noct.

It was hard to tell, but Ignis might have closed his eyes. “ _Seriously, Noct,_ ” he muttered, and once again Prompto fired a prayer up to Titan that the earth could just, like, open up right now and swallow him whole.

Any minute now.

Finally, Ignis opened his eyes again, and Prompto (still red-faced, twisting his paper napkin under the table) wondered why the man couldn’t have mercy and _reject_ him already—not the first time he’d’ve been rejected by a pretty face, but maybe the first time he’d’ve been fired by one.

Then, at least, he could go home, crash face-down on his bed, and send Noct a _strongly_ worded text for dropping him into the _most_ awkward surprise job interview in his fucking life before resigning himself to a lifetime of minimum wage.

Ignis reached into his bag. Prompto grimaced, bracing for Ignis to pull out his wallet, pay for his coffee, and bail.

But Ignis pulled out a set of papers, thumbing their edges till he found a few marked with a paperclip, then pushed them across the table.

“Here is all the information. Tour dates, locations, and contact and payment details.”

“That’s fine, thanks for—” Prompto said before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

Then he blinked. Opened his mouth,closed it.

Then opened his mouth again, flapping like a goldfish. “Pardon?” he managed.

“You were not incorrect, Mr Argentum. As I’m sure you know, Noctis is…” Ignis rubbed his eyes again. “Stubborn. I wish he’d...consulted us, before deciding to hire a photographer. But, frankly, I have little time to scout for another, or to argue with Noctis on the matter. And I trust, at least, that Noctis has seen your work to verify its quality, and is not merely offering you this position as a favour. So, yes, Noctis has already decided. You are _certain_ your employer will allow you to travel with us for the six weeks?”

It took a beat too long for Prompto to register that Ignis was waiting for a response. He picked his jaw up, swallowing; under the table, he’d reduced the paper napkin to confetti. “Uh,” Prompto said. “Um. Sure? Yes.” _One of them._

“Excellent,” Ignis said flatly. He downed the rest of his coffee while Prompto stared at him. Then he stood, grabbed his bag, fished out his wallet and dropped some money on the table. “This should cover both of our drinks. I shall send you further details in the coming week, if that’s alright. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting in...” He flipped up the glass cover on his wristwatch, brushing its face with his thumb, where the hands pointed to raised dots. “Twenty minutes.”

“Um. Yeah. Thank you.”

Ignis nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Argentum.”

Prompto wasn’t convinced, but he was too busy rewinding this whole exchange in his head to make sense of it to question that right now. “Snap,” he said weakly.

Ignis walked briskly away, pulling out his phone as he went—too focused, apparently, to even shudder at the late September chill—and Prompto watched him through the diner window till he vanished around the corner.

Then Prompto realised he’d been staring for a solid few minutes now, and turned back to his rapidly cooling coffee. He drank a little, the bitterness twisting his mouth and jolting some sense back into his brain, and realised that his heart rate had been tripping _way_ too high the entire time since he’d arrived late to the diner—panting from the run—and clapped eyes on his lunch date and nearly had a fucking heart attack thinking Noct had sent a _supermodel_.

Hell, maybe Ignis _was_. On top of everything else. He had that sort of classical face. Prompto thought: if you angled a spotlight just right, you could cast a shadow with those cheekbones. Get him to tilt his head a little, like a Greek bust—greyscale, maybe a little grain, and play up the piercings—

 _Sweet Six._ He glanced around (as if anyone here gave enough of a shit to notice his face burning) and tried to refocus on the fact that he’d just, against all odds, scored his first _real_ freelance gig.

Six weeks. On tour with World of Ruin. Hanging out with Noct again—going to gigs—getting _paid_ for it, which seemed like pretty sweet compensation for not being able to get shitfaced.

Despite everything, Prompto found bubbles rising in his chest, lifting his face into an irrepressible grin, light and dizzying.

_I’m gonna be a photographer._

_A_ real _fucking photographer._

_Comin’ up roses, baby._

Then his phone buzzed on the table—his work alarm—and just as quickly, the cold, sharp pin of capitalism deflated his grin like a sleep-deprived balloon.

* * *

Later, on the train to Shitty Job #1 with the high of earlier bleeding away, his thoughts began to circle in on him again.

Ignis, and his clipped manner. Ignis, and his long, irked pauses.

Prompto swallowed, grip tightening around the pole. Alright. Sure. Maybe he wouldn’t be the first choice here. Or, uh, the second. Or third. And _maybe_ Noct’s manager (slash-childhood-friend) didn’t like him all that much, if the interview were anything to go by.

That could get awkward _real_ quick on the road.

It was fine. He’d just...speak when spoken to, and try to keep his head in the game. Yeah. That couldn’t be _too_ hard, not after some of the other bullshit he’d put up with to keep a job. He only had to snap the guy, he didn’t have to swap friendship bracelets with him.

Yeah.

He could make this work.

* * *

Later still on the train home, Prompto pulled out his headphones. Not counting the mini jam session Noct gave him when he’d crashed at his place after Lady A, just Noct and his voice and his acoustic guitar on the floor of his giant fuckoff rich boy lounge, Prompto hadn’t really listened to any of their music yet, and now seemed as good a time as any to get familiar with the discography.

He’d never really _looked_ for punk stuff outside of those big pop punk bands, the shit everyone knew (and he _still_ hadn’t forgiven Noct for giving him shit about it in high school), but he’d assumed it’d be something like the music Noct used to write when they were sixteen on his brand new electric guitar: full of fire and bitterness and going just a _little_ too hard for Prompto not to wonder if his friend were, like, okay and stuff. Maybe a little rough at the edges with teen angst and hyperbole, but actually pretty good. Given who his dad was, maybe it was genetic.

World of Ruin’s stuff was on a different _level_.

If Noctis’ old lyrics hit like a hammer, this new stuff cut between your ribs like a knife. He could pick out Noct’s voice in the backing vocals sometimes, but mostly it was a woman’s voice, dancing wildly between high and melodic and gentle and dangerous and _screaming_ rage against an electric tempest of cresting guitar and frothing bass and crashing cymbals, crying furiously in the face of love and politics and Gods and stony bouncers. Real kick-you-in-the-teeth-and-spike-your-drink shit. Goddamn. Prompto could close his eyes in the middle of the train car and see the smoky strobe lights through his eyelids, smell the sweat and cheap fog machine and cheaper beer.

After a while, he realised he was listening for one thing in particular: the synthetic undertow of deft hands dancing across a keyboard.

He wondered what Ignis looked like onstage.

Just as quickly as the thought formed, he’d slammed the lid down on it. His face burned and he glanced around the crowded train car as if he’d been caught—as if his thoughts were scrawled in the freckles his pathetically open face.

* * *

At Shitty Job #2, after five hours of painful smiling, Prompto collapsed into the cracked plastic chair in the break room and found three missed calls.

He blinked. It wasn’t uncommon for his roommate to try to call him, but this seemed a little excessive. For a wild second, he wondered who died. Then he saw his unread texts:

> **[queen of beer pong:]**  
>  _\- are those WOR tour dates on the fridge calendar????????  
>  _ _\- sweetie this is life or death answer me  
>  _ _\- prom  
>  \- i’m holdin wiz hostage till ya answer me  
>  \- might pluck him and put him in a pie  
>  \- wow no answer??? what kinda chocobo daddy are you  
>  \- wiz deserves better i’m his chocobo daddy now  
>  \- PROM_

He snickered, then hit call.

Cindy picked up almost immediately. “ _Sweet Six, do ya always leave girls waitin’ like that?_ ”

“Only the cute ones. Hard-to-get and all.”

“ _Cute,_ ” she snorted. “ _Lemme know if that ever works out._ ” Prompto heard the soft _whump_ of an oversized chocobo plush being tossed onto a bed, or maybe a sofa, then Cindy following suit. “ _When were you plannin’ to tell me you’re followin’ World of Ruin on tour? I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t ever felt betrayal like this before._ ”

Huh. “You’re a fan?”

“ _You kiddin’?_ ” she said. Cindy had never been one to smother her own excitement; he could picture the sparkle in her eye and the way she’d be leaning forward in her seat, gesturing wildly with her free hand, a blonde bundle of excitable energy. One of the few people he’d ever met who could match his own incorrigible levels of wild enthusiasm for things, which was _great_ for drinking games and Mario Kart (but not so great for the morning after, or their poor Wiimotes, may they rest in peace). “ _I’m an OG fan, honey! Been followin’ ‘em since they were playin’ Wednesday nights at the Snarlin’ Couerl, bless that old firetrap. Ain’t I ever mentioned it?_ ”

“Um,” he said. He squinted at nothing, interrogating his shit memory. “Maybe?”

She sighed. “ _Hopeless, honestly. So how come_ you _never mentioned bein’ a fan? We could’a gone to gigs together._ ”

Right. They’d both been so busy, he hadn’t had the chance to bring it up. “Actually,” he said, scratching his neck, “I kinda got a job with them? As an onboard gig photographer. A freelance thing.”

“ _You WHAT?_ ”

Prompto winced, pulling the phone away from his ear for a second; someone glanced up from across the employee lounge. “Holy _shit_ , Cindy, did Cid give you those lungs?”

“ _How the hell’d ya score_ that _gig, Prom?_ ” Cindy said. He heard the thudding of combat boots pacing cheap kitchen tile. “ _Since when were you advertisin’ for gig photography? Don’t bands usually hire folk at the venue? Wait. Hold on. Where ya just gonna skip out on a girl for a_ month _and not mention a thing? Your mama should’a told you that’s no way to treat a lady! And how’d you get this job, anyway? Did I ask that already?_ ”

“Miss _Aurum_ ,” he interrupted when Cindy was mid-breath, clutching his chest. “I am a _gentleman_. I’d at least spell something rude on your fridge magnets before I skipped.”

“ _Ha! Naw, you’d be too desperate to skip in the first place._ ”

“Why would I be desperate when I’m getting screwed by capitalism every day?”

Cindy laughed, a hitching _snort_ that tugged, briefly, on the strings of Prompto’s inconvenient heart. Not enough to really sting anymore, but still. A brief reminder of the best rejection he’d ever had. “ _Don’t think I don’t notice you not answerin’ my other question!_ ”

“Honestly, it just kinda. Happened? I ran into an old high school friend at the Lady A thing. Turns out he’s World of Ruin’s guitarist now, and he wanted me to, like, ride along. He talked about wanting high-res photos of them on the road, too, for a music video or something. Small world, right?”

“ _PROM!_ ”

He pulled the phone away from his ear again. “My _eardrum_ , Cindy, I need it for the gig!”

“ _You’ve been holdin’ out on me!_ ”

“Be nice to me, I didn’t know!”

He didn’t. It was still strange, actually, to think that the shy, scrawny kid with emo hair who could summon stray cats like a walking can of tuna had actually _made it_. Not, like, _made it_ made it. Not household-name, touring-the-continent, headlining-at-the-Ulwaat-Music-Festival _made it_. But _made it_ enough to tour Lucis west-to-east and sell tickets at local indie music venues. Enough, apparently, for Prompto’s roommate to be part of their intense local fanbase.

He’d always known that Noct wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life pouring his heart out onstage, but—

“ _I wanna come._ ”

Prompto blinked. “Whazzatnow?”

“ _Ya heard me, Prom. I wanna come!_ ”

“You mean, like, as a groupie?”

“ _Well, you make it sound bad when ya say it like that. C’mon, it could be a bonding thing—you’n me on the road! Don’t guys like that kinda thing?_ ”

“ _Riiiiight_. Those, uh, time-honoured male bonding rituals.” He sighed a little through his nose. Thinking. “I dunno. I mean...it’s a job, y’know, I should probably. Be professional about it? My future artistic career is on the line, dude. Anyway, would your grandpa even let you be away from the garage for that long?”

Cindy made a _pfft_ noise. “ _I know you don’t believe it, but Paw-Paw’s a big ol’ softie under all that grease and gruffness. ‘Sides, I ain’t taken a day off since I was fifteen. He owes me. C’mon,_ ” she wheedled, and Prompto thought: holy shit, she _really_ wants this. “ _I ain’t gonna mooch! I’ll pay my own way, swear it. They don’t even gotta put me up. I’m just askin’ if they’ll let me buy tickets for the shows that’re already sold out._ ”

“But can you even—”

 _Afford it?_ Prompto bit down on the words a second too late, Cindy falling quiet on the other end of the line.

_Nice one, dick._

“ _Oh_ ,” Cindy said. She sounded deflated. “ _Right, yeah. Sorry for askin’. Li’l ol’ me would only get in the way, huh._ ”

“Wait!” Prompto sat upright suddenly, eyes wide. “Th-that’s not— I didn’t mean it like _that!_ You’re just—on a mechanic’s pay—”

“ _No, no,_ ” she lamented, with the cadence of a silver screen darling gazing wistfully into the sea. “ _I get it. You got a big job to do. I’ll just...keep our apartment warm. I got Wiz to keep me company...few tubs of ice cream...maybe Paw-Paw’ll take pity on me..._ ”

Prompto flapped his mouth helplessly. “I’m sorry! I-I—I’ll ask! I’ll ask Noct.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “ _Aw, you’re a sweetheart, Prom. ‘Preciate it!_ ”

She sounded— _chipper_. As if her voice weren’t close to tears ten seconds ago. Prompto gaped at nothing.

“You—you _cheater_! You _witched_ me! Emotional blackmail!”

“ _Naw, you’re just a softie,_ ” Cindy chirped. “ _No take-backseys!_ ”

“You’re killing me. You’re killing your father, Cindy.”

She _pfft_ ed again. “ _I ain’t askin’ for a ride-along, Prom, I got ol’ Creeper—_ ” Right. _Crepera_ , Cindy’s hulking, beat-up old truck and the love of her life, how could he forget. “ _—and_ you _, mister, shouldn’t be worried about_ my _bank account._ Or _my vacation days, for that matter. How in Bahamut’s name are_ you _plannin’ on getting a month off work_ this _close to Shivatide?_ ”

Ah. That. He grimaced. “Six weeks,” he muttered, then rubbed his eyes. “Takka gave me the green light. Had to beg, but I’m doing a crapton of extra Shivatide and new year shifts to make up for it. So.”

“ _Alright, that’s the nice one down. How about the bitchy one?_ ”

“Uh. I’ve been practising my puppy dog eyes?”

“ _Wow,_ ” she said with a low whistle. “ _Gods bless ya and good luck, honey. Hey, uh—by the way. You know I’m half-kiddin’ about that whole thing, right? If you actually don’t want me there, you only gotta tell me straight. I ain’t a takin’ hints kinda girl. Won’t even be offended._ ”

“No, no!” he said quickly. “It’d be super cool to have you there, Cind. I’m just worried about, y’know, professionalism and everything, I guess? I think...uh. I think the manager already doesn’t like me.”

“ _You? Aw, Prom, you’re like a puppy. How couldn’t he love ya?_ ” Promto could think of a few dozen reasons off the cuff, but before he could list any, she said, “ _You’re overthinkin’ again. You said you’re already friends with the guitarist, right? Just ‘cause you’re on a job don’t mean they’re expectin’ you not to have a little fun with it. Hell, you know_ they _will. This kinda opportunity doesn’t drop in your lap every day. If I gotta be there to bully ya into enjoyin’ it, I will. Don’t test me!_ ”

“Okay, okay!” Prompto laughed. “Alright. I’ll ask Noct.”

“ _You call him Noct? Aw, that’s cute! You know anyone else in the band?_ ”

Prompto thought—briefly—

_Pale green. Grass in winter._

He fisted a hand into the cheap, itchy fabric of his work uniform, and shoved the thought down with violent prejudice. “No, just Noct,” he said, and prayed Cindy wouldn’t notice the crack in his voice. “L-look, I gotta, uh. My break’s nearly over, I just—”

“ _Oh, shoot! Sorry Prom, didn’t mean to keep you talkin’ that long. Lemme know how it goes with facin’ down the dragon, alright?_ ”

“Ha,” he said weakly. “What’s the worst he can do? Fire me?”

* * *

Prompto would learn, after clocking out three hours later, three things:

One. Puppy eyes were _extremely_ ineffective in the face of a hardass, understaffed manager who still carried a grudge against Prompto for getting those wrist tattoos and ear plugs and falling into a half-hour nap on break once. _We can’t spare the manpower this close to Shivatide,_ he said, and looked away as if expecting that to be that.

Two. Prompto, to his own surprise as much as anyone else’s, could summon one hell of a backbone when he _really_ wanted something. And between staring down the barrel of retail purgatory, and risking a few months of food for a long shot at a photography career—on tour with Noct, and— _green eyes_ —

Well.

Three. The worst thing his manager could do was, in fact, to fire him.

On the train back home—sans one nametag and one ugly, yellow-and-black hat—he stared at the darkening skyline past the window with a glazed eye, curled over his stomach, which twisted sickeningly in two different directions. After half an hour of dancing around an anxiety attack, and just as the train was pulling into Prompto’s stop, he decided: getting kicked out from that hellish place was the best thing that could’ve happened here. He only wished he’d stopped to smell the roses and flip the bird on the way out.

Of course, this was even more incentive _not_ to mess this up and further piss off the man in charge of his next paycheck, or he was _really_ screwed.

 _What could go wrong?_ he thought morosely, before a warning chime snapped him back to reality and he bolted for the closing doors.

* * *

Cindy made a low whistle, tipping up her trucker hat. “ _Wooow._ Are they even makin’ this kinda money yet?”

Prompto didn’t answer, too busy gawking up at the tour bus—not a truck, or a van, but a massive fully-fledged live-in _bus_. The sides beneath the tinted windows had been covered in black tarpaulin sheets, but still: this beast was four wheels and a hull away from being a small cruiseliner.

Suddenly, Noct’s assurances that _oh yeah, we have plenty of room for you and a plus one_ made a lot of sense.

“ _Rich kids,_ ” he muttered, equal parts resigned and awestruck. He stood there with a hand on his luggage and the other clinging to his camera bag (worth more than anything else he owned combined), suddenly, irrationally nervous to approach; he felt like he was trespassing just looking at it.

Thank the Gods for Cindy, irreverent as ever, who waltzed around to tug at the edge of a tarp and peer behind it. “Hey, look here!”

Prompto took a deep breath and followed Cindy, and she leaned back to give him a peek. It looked like the tarps were hiding some kind of graphic or logo, and after tilting his head and squinting for a minute, he realised that he recognised it.

“ _His Royal Arms_?”

“Must’ve been Noctis’ pa’s old tour bus,” Cindy said. “HRA were hard rock _legends_ back in the day—Paw-Paw was obsessed with ‘em, not that he’d admit it now—ain’t surprising that they’d’ve had wheels like this. Mystery solved, huh?” She was already circling around to peer at the back, mossy green eyes sparkling, hands twitching towards the bus as if she were itching to dig into its mechanical guts. “Thirty years old at _least_. Wonder if they’d let me crack open the engine on this ol’ thing…”

“ _Hey!_ Trespassers!”

Prompto was not a trespasser. But. He _squeaked_ , snapping upright and fumbling when he almost dropped and scattered his fancy-schmancy photography bag. He cradled it to his chest like a babe. “Not guilty!”

Heart racing, he locked eyes with a lithe figure leaning out of the door of the bus, her arms linked behind her back and her face stretched into a grin.

“ _Reeee-_ ally?” the girl said, sing-song. She had a shock of chestnut hair—a little younger than him and Cindy—and from this distance he could see half a face of makeup, purple lipstick and one finished eye. She looked—familiar? “‘Cause if you wanted to break in, you only had to knock!”

Cindy had appeared again next to Prompto, and she bounced a little on her heels, offensively chipper for someone wearing a crop top in deep October. If her eyes were sparkling before, they were _blinding_ now. “Hi there!” Cindy said, a little louder than necessary. She swept past Prompto, sticking out her hand; the girl blinked, but her grin only got wider. “Wow. I’m a _big_ fan, the name’s—”

“Cindy, right?” The girl grabbed Cindy’s hand with equal gusto, and Prompto thought, _Holy shit there’s two of them._ “Noct mentioned you. Name’s Iris, but I guess you know that. And _you!_ ” she said, suddenly accusatory, jabbing a finger in Prompto’s direction. Prompto’s heart stuttered again. _HolyshitamIfiredalready_. “You threw up on the blanket I made Noct!”

Prompto blinked. “I. What.”

“ _Don’t_ give me that innocent look,” the girl—Iris—said, skipping right into his personal space to jab him in the chest. Maybe he _had_ been practising the puppy eyes too hard. She only came up a little past his chin, but her arms were all lean muscle, and Prompto tucked away a little mental note never to challenge her to an arm wrestle. “I put my sweat and tears into knitting that thing! You didn’t have to put your drunk puke in it too, _gross_.”

“Uh. Sorry? _Wait—_ ” He tipped his head, eyes suddenly blowing wide. “You’re that kid! The one who told on me and Noct for sneaking his dad’s booze!”

“Psh, _duh_. And I’m no kid anymore! ‘Sides, it was payback. For ruining the blanket, jerk.” And, okay, maybe Prompto felt a little bad for that. He scratched his neck, flapping his mouth uselessly, until Iris snorted and elbowed him in the ribs. Like she’d known him for five years instead of five minutes, which to be fair, was _technically_ correct. “C’mon, Mister Photographer, you can make it up to me by getting my good side on camera tonight. The others are waiting inside! Noct has been talking you _way_ up, so you’d better rise to expectations.”

“No pressure,” Prompto said weakly.

“Nope!” She hooked her elbow with his—he barely managed to grab the handle of his luggage in time—and tugged him towards the door of the bus with alarming strength. She reached for Cindy’s elbow too, who suddenly looked a little disarmed. “Pick up the pace, people, we’ve got introductions to make and four faces to make-up.”

“Uh,” Cindy piped up, voice climbing an octave. “We’re—meetin’ the whole band now? _All_ of ‘em?”

Prompto looked over at her, frowning. He couldn’t remember the last time Cindy had sounded panicked like that. _Well. Except for whenever she—_

“Yup,” Iris said, derailing the train of thought. “We all wanted to get settled in the bus. And say hi, since you two’ll be chilling with us in an enclosed space for six weeks. It’s not too late for us to change our minds if we think we’ll all wanna kill each other after two days.”

Iris led them up the steps into the bus, then turned to them and threw her arms wide. “Welcome,” she said, with aplomb, “to the WOR Machine! A real home away from home."

“‘ _War Machine_ ’?” Prompto said.

“Like, _W-O-R_. WOR. Sick acronym, right? It was _my_ idea, but the others wouldn’t admit it, so don’t ask ‘em.”

The vinyl floor looked ripped straight out of an eighties dance club, but everything else looked brand new: the sparkling kitchenette, the leather seatings, the TV embedded in the wall. He heard voices and laughter from up another set of stairs to the left, up the other end of the bus.

One voice, in particular, was familiar. A cool, clear voice.

Prompto felt lightheaded.

Iris, ignorant of the way Prompto’s pulse had just spiked, led them up to the second floor and left him not choice but to follow. “Bathroom,” she said, pointing at the door as they passed. “ _Ocupado_ right now. And these are all the bunks.” She gestured to a bunch of curtained alcoves lining the walls. “We’ve already picked ours, but there’s plenty left over for you guys to choose from. Don’t be fooled, these things are probably comfier than whatever bed you got at home. Hell, they’re nicer than mine. And up here’s the lounge area! Great view up here. Say hi, everyone!”

At the end of the bus, a black sofa curled under the large front window, and it was already half-crowded.

Noct sat on the end, finishing a wing of eyeliner, his black hair defying all known laws of gravity. He looked up and smiled. “Hey! Glad you made it.”

Everyone looked up then—all three sets of eyes—and Prompto felt pinned like a butterfly. He wrangled the irrational spike of anxiety, hooked his thumbs on his belt and managed a laugh which only sounded a _little_ manic. “Wouldn’t’ve missed it, dude!”

“You know Noct,” Iris said, “our guitarist. This is Gladdy—uh, Gladio—my big brother, he’s on bass.” The scruffy-jawed man opposite Noct grinned, flashing a sign of the horns and a few dozen silver rings. His long, dark mullet was shaved down the sides, and even sat down Prompto could tell Gladio was easily twice the size of him; beneath dark feathers tattooed down his arms, he had the sort of rippling muscle Prompto would lose sleep over and arms that could, probably, crack Prompto’s head like a nut. His face felt a little hot.

“I’m Iris—duh—I’m pulling double-duty as the drummer _and_ the cutest member, so this whole operation would basically fall apart without me.”

“Cute as a pug,” Gladio offered helpfully, his voice like gravel. Noct snorted.

Iris poked her tongue at him. “Cuter than _him_. Who else—there’s Luna, our main vocalist—she’ll be out in a sec, I think she’s just finishing her face.” Cindy, who’d been unusually quiet this whole time next to Prompto, made a little arrested noise, but he didn’t have the brain space to parse it right now. “And of course, the man, the myth, the legend—”

Prompto felt lightheaded. He swallowed, trying to wrestle his heart down from his throat, but there it was, lodged there, making it harder to breathe.

“—Iggy, our magic man. Keyboardist, band manager, team mom, business _wunderkind_ , makes a mean hot chocolate. We’d be dead in the water if not for him.”

Ignis, sat next to Noct with one leg crossed over the other, pushed his glasses up the elegant hook of his nose. His hair was still immaculate; his cheekbones could still cut glass. In that tight, flattering turtleneck, he looked for all the world like he was posing for a cologne ad. “The flatteries are unnecessary, Iris,” he said. Prompto would be lying if he said he’d forgotten how crystalline and smooth Ignis’ voice was, like he’d stepped out of a period piece, something with lots of ruffles and monologues and longing stares looping in the background din of Prompto’s head for three weeks. But. His pulse certainly _acted_ like he had. “Aside from which, Mr Argentum and I have already been acquainted. However, it’s a pleasure to meet you...Miss Aurum, I believe?”

 _What does that ‘however’ mean?_ Prompto thought. Then he thought: oh Gods, was Ignis pissed that he brought a plus one? Did he look unprofessional? Ignis seemed like someone who cared a lot about, y’know, professionality and shit. Prompto wiped his palms surreptitiously on his couerl-print legging.

Ignis’ words seemed to snap Cindy out of her weird silence; she cleared her throat, hands on her hips, then sounded as sunny as she ever had. If a little strangled. “In the flesh! Y’all can call me Cindy, if you please. And, uh, I want y’all to know how much I appreciate you puttin’ me up like this. Y’all didn’t have to, seriously. I’m happy to pay my way if you wanted. Or help out with haulin’ equipment, pushin’ merch, _anythin’_.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Noct said, setting down his eyeliner pen. He’d drawn thin, spiked lashes under his eyes. “You’re close with Prompto, right? ‘Sides, it’s not like we’re gonna run out of room. This bus was built for, y’know, a whole crew of people—sound techs, stage managers, the works. Stuff we don’t really have yet. Honestly, it was feeling kinda weird with all those empty bunks.”

“Well, I’m pleased as anythin’ to help there,” Cindy said. “Gotta say, it’s a real honour—I’m a _huge_ fan, used to catch your early shows at the Snarlin’ Couerl.”

“That old firetrap?” Noct, Gladio and Iris all said at the same time. They blinked at each other.

Cindy snickered. “Very same! Still got the old band shirts.”

“We appreciate it, truly,” Ignis said. His expression didn’t change, though. “Ah—where are our manners? Please, both of you, take a seat. We have drinks in the fridge, do help yourself.”

Ignis shuffled around, and everyone else followed suit. Iris threw herself down next to Gladio, elbowing into his space, then made an indignant noise and started poking his side when he leaned on her head like an armrest. Prompto and Cindy sat, and Prompto grabbed a can of coke, grateful for something to do with his hands. Cindy’s knee was bouncing a little in the corner of his eye.

He took a long swig, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “So,” he said, desperate to say _something_ , to avoid looking at Ignis any more than he had to. “What’s with the fancy wheels? Unless we’re going to Ulwaat Fest and no one told me.” He dug lightly into Noctis’ ribs, smiling crookedly. “This thing’s a castle on wheels, dude. I feel underdressed in here!”

Noct flushed a little under his makeup, digging back. His elbow was bonier than Prompto’s, no fair. “Just wanted us all to be comfy, that’s all. Just ‘cause this isn’t, like, a stadium tour doesn’t mean we gotta put up with motel living, right?”

Gladio snorted, now holding Iris in a headlock and mussing her hair while she squawked into the crook of his elbow about her makeup. “After all that _big talk_ about wanting the real band experience,” he said.

“This _is_ the real band experience!” Noct said defensively. “We’ve been doing this from the ground up. Not relying on anyone else’s name or money.”

Cindy coughed. Prompto couldn’t help raising his eyebrows, glancing around at the bus. “Uh. Dude?”

“His Lazyness’ dad ain’t paying for it,” Gladio said. “Technically. He paid for the refurbishments, though.”

That earned him a scowl and a half-hearted kick from Noct’s direction. “I didn’t _ask_ him to do that. And we’re paying for the gas ‘n’ stuff. Besides, it’s not like Dad’s using this thing anymore.”

“ _I wanna make it on my own, Dad,_ ” Gladio said, and Noct tried to kick him again. Gladio caught his foot with his free hand. “ _I don’t need any help. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way, Dad._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. Would you rather we set up Iris in dodgy motels?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess,” Gladio said at the same time that Iris said something like “Don’t use me as ammo in your dumbass fights!” from under Gladio’s arm, while Noct tried vainly to tug his foot back. “You just wanted to sleep in in the mornings.”

“ _Gladdyyyyy,_ ” Iris said, muffled.

Ignis cleared his throat. They all froze, even Prompto.

“Children,” Ignis said.

Noct muttered something. Gladio let them both go and grinned at Ignis. “C’mon, Iggy, it was just getting funny.”

Ignis sighed. “Honestly.”

“Very sorry, everyone! I’m ready now.”

Prompto looked up at the new voice: a woman climbing the stairs and approaching the lounge area. Tall, with pale eyes and white-gold hair draped in messy twin plaits over her shoulders; her lips were painted silver, with gold sequin stars and glitter dripping down her cheeks. She spotted Prompto and Cindy, smiled, and—

_Oh._

Yeah. Prompto’s stupid heart might’ve arrested for a second.

“I’m very sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” the woman said, soft and ethereal; she had the same Tenebraen lilt as Ignis, though gentler. Prompto’s brain broke for a second, trying to connect this quiet, soothing voice to the grab-you-by-the-neck haunting mezzo from the album. She adjusted the star clusters dangling from her ears, her septum piercing catching the light. He caught a glimpse of moon phases inked onto her back beneath a loose white tank top. “You must be Noctis’ guests? My name is—”

“Lunafreya!” Cindy blurted next to his ear, and Prompto jumped about a foot in the air; he’d half-forgotten Cindy was there, too caught up on how the requirement for being part of WOR, apparently, involved being a fucking model. If Ignis was a Baroque original, Lunafreya was a Mucha, a _riot grrrl_ Bernhardt descending from her floral arch for a smoke break.

But Cindy jumped sharply to her feet, freckled face staining pink. Her hands flitted for a moment. Then she stuck one out, smiling, the sort of wide, open smile Prompto used to see on her face whenever Sania was being interviewed on TV. “Uh, sorry. I mean—name’s Cindy, Cindy Aurum. Sorry,” she said again, with that sparkling laugh. “Just, gosh, I’m a _huge_ fan of yours. Ain’t ever heard another voice like yours, y’know?”

Lunafreya blinked. To her credit, she recovered quickly—though not quite quick enough to disguise the little intake of breath. And just a millisecond too slow. Lunafreya smiled back, only hesitating a moment to take Cindy’s offered hand.

“Thank you! I’m—very flattered, truly. And please, call me Luna, both of you.”

“Well, if ya insist,” Cindy said brightly. “Luna.”

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands for a second, nor break eye contact. Prompto stared at Cindy’s face, shuffling the pieces around—seeing Iris, in the corner of his eye, clap a hand over her mouth—

 _Ah,_ he thought dumbly.

So that’s why Cindy wanted in on this tour so bad.

Prompto scratched his ear. _Shit. I really need to get this gaydar fixed._

Someone cleared his throat—Gladio. “The show starts at eight, slackers.”

“Right,” Ignis said, and Luna let go of Cindy’s hand, pink beneath the stars. Cindy, on her part, was still grinning. “We ought to finish getting ready, don’t you think? Noctis, why don’t you take these two to get settled in.”

It wasn’t a question, and once again, Prompto’s stupid anxious brain thought: _he’s trying to get rid of me already._

Okay. That one probably _was_ an overreaction. He’d hash it out with his therapist later.

“Aye-aye, Specs,” Noct said, shrugging on a denim jacket. “C’mon, we’ll pick your bunks. I’m sorted already, so we can go grab a drink while the others finish up—there’s a decent place nearby. Luna, you wanna come?”

Luna got pinker, glancing at Cindy. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

Noct nudged Prompto’s shoulder. “Alright?”

“Huh?” Prompto blinked at him, found Noct searching his face. Shook himself mentally. “Sure. I could, uh. Go for something.”

Noctis gave him a _look_. Then he shrugged, nudging Prompto out of the seat. “We’ll meet you at the venue, Iggy.”

Noct herded them all down the bus. But Prompto dared one more glance back over his shoulder at Ignis: poised, perfect, a model of casually unattainable beauty.

* * *

“So,” Noct said, glancing sideways at Prompto, elegant eyebrows furrowed as he cradled a grande iced vanilla latte (with soy milk and caramel drizzle) and Prompto valiantly battled the deep, desperate urge to rib him over it. “What was _that_?”

Prompto raised his eyebrows back. “What was what?” he said around a mouthful of tapioca pearls.

“I mean _that_. In the bus earlier.” Noct kept his voice low, though he needn’t have bothered: Cindy and Luna might as well have been on another table, Cindy spinning some elaborate story about that time someone challenged her truck to a chocobo race to settle a repair bill, while Luna spoke up every now and then with a soft smile. It was borderline mesmerising to watch, and Prompto couldn’t stop wondering _how the hell does Cindy do that_. But Noct was leaning into view, grabbing his attention. “I don’t remember you being that—quiet, really. You looked kinda out of it, to be honest.”

Prompto felt his face warm; he rocked back on the legs of his chair. “Just trying to make a good first impression, dude. Trying not to fuck up around the guys who’re writing my next paycheck. You know me.” He laughed. “I open my mouth, all kinds of crap falls out—I don’t think your friends want to hear my life story just yet. Or, uh. Fifty fun facts about chocobos, or whatever else my brain comes up with on the fly. You get me?”

Noct rolled his eyes fondly. “ _Riiight_. You’re saving up all the _weird nerd_ for later, when we’re all stuck on a bus with you.”

Prompto flicked a tapioca pearl at him. “I prefer _off-beat and charming_ , and I _know_ you love it.”

“Uh-huh.” Noct looked at him thoughtfully, eyes sharp and very blue. “But for real. You know you don’t have to worry so much, right? You’re gonna do great. And the others, they’re not _that_ scary. I mean—I know Gentiana can _seem_ judgemental, but she’s just. Quiet, y’know? And Gladio’s got the whole _tough guy_ schtick, but he’s a softie under there. Trust me. When you watch him around Iris, you’ll see.”

“I’ll take your word for it, I guess.” Prompto bit the inside of his cheek, glancing at Noct from under his eyelashes. After a minute, he said, “And Ignis?”

“Ignis? What about Ignis?”

“Uh. Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?” Noct leaned in. Squinted a little. “Wait. Are you scared of Ignis?”

Prompto’s face grew hotter. “No!”

“Seriously? _Iggy?_ He’s the _biggest_ softie of all of us, Prom.”

“Told you, I’m _not_ —” Prompto stopped. Blinked. “You’re fucking with me, dude.”

“Hand on my heart. Iris wasn’t kidding about the mother hen stuff,” Noct said, snorting. “I mean. I guess I _kinda_ get it, he has a mean resting bitchface, and he can get a little strict when we’re not on schedule. But. It’s just that, really. Trust me, I grew up with him.”

“Uh-huh,” Prompto muttered, unconvinced.

“Hey, look—” Noct started, but then his phone chimed at him. He looked at it and pulled a face. “Crap. We’re gonna be late for soundcheck. Hey, Luna?”

No answer. Noctis and Prompto looked up to see Luna giggling, Cindy beaming and looking _very_ pleased with herself. Noct raised his eyebrows, catching Prompto’s eye.

“Uh, Luna?”

“Hm? Oh!” Luna sat upright in her seat, sheepish. “Sorry! I'm coming."

She sipped a little of her black coffee, pulled a face, then left it on the table, stone cold and still full. Prompto caught Cindy's eye as Noct and Luna hurried out ahead of them.

"What?" Cindy said. as Noct and Luna hurried ahead of them.

“Hey,” Prompto said, voice low. “You could’ve said something.”

Cindy blinked at him. “Somethin’ about what?”

“Ha. About the Luna thing. You’re making good time on it, dude.”

Cindy frowned. “Good time on what?”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Cindy stared at him for a moment, but then just snorted. “Sometimes I wonder what’s goin’ on in that cute li’l head,” she said, ruffling his hair before jogging ahead of Luna to hold open a door, the picture of gay chivalry.

Did Cindy really not notice?

He shook his head. _Seriously. How the hell does she_ do _that?_

* * *

Gladio rolled his eyes. "Ready before any of us and you're _still_ late."

"You keep talking and you're _still_ not helpful," Noct said. "We're here, aren't we? And you never give Luna a hard time."

"'Cause she doesn't rise like you do. _And_ she's cuter."

Noct elbowed him. Lightly. "Luna, back me up here."

"I'm afraid, Noctis," Luna said with solemn gravity, "his logic is indisputable."

"Thanks. Prompto? Cindy?"

“Oh no, the lady’s right,” Cindy chirped, leaning on Luna’s shoulder with the camaraderie of an old friend. Luna burned red under her makeup all over again. “Godspeed, lonely soldier.”

Prompto barely registered that Noct had asked. He was busy staring. At Gladio, lugging a speaker over one broad shoulder, whose hair was pulled back into a half-ponytail and who wore a muscle tank top so loose it was more like a black string, revealing the full extend of his sprawling tattoo: an eagle in flight, covering his back and curling over his shoulders, screeching into his right pec ( _holy shit_ ). He caught Prompto looking, and winked.

Panicking a little, Prompto glanced sharply away.

But then—there was Ignis, because Gods forbid Prompto catch a break today. His shirt was tucked snugly into tight black trousers; indigo-purple and patterned with couerl-print, he’d left it undone to the fourth button and pushed his sleeves up to the elbow. It revealed more of Ignis’ tattoo, the roses carrying on over his left pec, a skull nestled in their petals. The form-hugging material looked—soft, _very_ soft, and Prompto’s fingers twitched, and was Ignis wearing makeup or was it the lighting of the venue? His cheekbones looked so much sharper, suddenly, under opaque red glasses. Ignis adjusted the strap on his fingerless leather gloves, forearms flexing a little, and Prompto felt something weaken. Soft-and-sharp.

“Like sorbet,” Prompto murmured, dazed.

“You what, dude?”

“Huh?” Prompto blinked at Noctis. “What?”

“Useless,” Noct said glumly. “All of you.”

Gladio was looking at Prompto with an eyebrow raised. He glanced at Ignis, then at Prompto again; Prompto was suddenly _very_ interested in his camera bag, digging around inside for nothing in particular.

“Yes, well. As you are—as you so helpfully point out—here, perhaps you would deign to help us with setting up?” Ignis said. He was still adjusting his gloves, and the _suggestion_ of lean muscle wasn’t so much a suggestion anymore. “I believe Iris is struggling with her kit backstage.”

 _Setting up_ turned out to be a long, arduous process, and they wouldn’t even let Prompto or Cindy help. “Ignis is rather particular about it,” Luna confessed quietly, with a small, conspiratorial smile, and Noctis added: “We have, you know, a system. It's like a pre-show ritual, gets our head in the game. You can hang out at the bar, though, if you want.”

So they sat at the bar. Prompto checked and triple-checked his camera equipment—stomach now flipping at the slow, dawning realisation that this, _this_ was it, _showtime baby_ , and sure he’d done this sort of thing before but if anything was going to go wrong it would be _now_ when he’s being paid for it and has _Ignis looking over his work_ —while Cindy chatted next to him nursing her first whiskey highball of the evening, gently ribbing Prompto over the fact that alcohol was _not_ going to be part of his.

Then the doors opened and the crowd started filing in, and suddenly Prompto and Cindy were shoulder-to-shoulder with a buzzing mass barely small enough to contain in the little venue. Then they were herded in—Prompto front-and-centre with a lanyard at his neck, losing Cindy somewhere in the crush—and Prompto was clutching his LOKTON LX-X1R for dear life, now more than a little paranoid about six months worth of wages crashing spectacularly to a floor that would soon be sticky with alcohol.

Then the lights dropped, and scattered cheers rose from the milling spectators, before fading into anticipatory silence. Smoke rolled in lazily from the corners of the room, rendering everything hazy and dreamlike in the dark, suspending the room in a single, unified breath.

Indistinct shapes shifted onstage in the dark.

Then, a voice, echoing at the mic.

“ _Welcome,_ ” Luna said, low and husky, in a way that Prompto felt to his bones, “ _to the World of Ruin._ ”

The lights flared up, like the sky splitting for heaven.

And Lunafreya _screamed_.

* * *

As the crowd went insane behind Prompto, all he could think, for a good few minutes, was:

 _Holy shit_.

It was a lightning strike. The audience, a roll of thunder. Luna’s voice cracked the electric air in two; she gripped the mic stand with both hands, swaying it like a dance partner, eyes screwed shut as she belted about _dancing in a burning room_. Her voice was rich and dark, the voice from the album, but so, _so_ much more—powerful in a way Prompto would never expect from the girl who’d sat across from Cindy at the café, rapt and awestruck, whisper-quiet.

Oh. She’d been saving her voice.

Behind her, Noct shredded on his guitar, moving too quickly to see his face, dark hair flying; behind the drum kit, all Prompto could see of Iris was a chaos of flailing arms; Gladio, meanwhile, was a rock in the stormy sea, his electric bass a heavy, thrumming undercurrent. And Ignis—

_Ignis._

He bent over his keyboard with seismic intensity, hands dancing so deftly along the keys, they looked like they were fluttering; they looked almost gentle. But Prompto felt the synth to the back of his teeth. And the _lighting_ —he’d imagined it before, Ignis’ cheekbones lit up like a Greek bust, but it was a different beast seeing him now, live, lost in his own music beneath the harsh, smoky white light.

“ _Kill the ignition, toss the kindling,”_ Luna crooned. “ _This fire’s not stopping!_ ”

There wasn’t a trace left of the autumn chill; already, he felt blistering.

Prompto was so busy staring at them, it wasn’t until Noct hit the final lingering note that he realised he hadn’t taken a single photo yet.

The crowd roared as Luna stepped back from the mic, grinning. Noct reached for a water bottle, back turned to the audience; Ignis stood still for a moment, then straightened, nodding to the crowd as if he’d just performed a particularly solemn rendition of Beethoven. Prompto stood awestruck.

“The energy here tonight,” Luna said, stepping back up to the mic, “is fucking incredible.”

Someone screeched next to Prompto’s ear.

“We are World of Ruin. Now, you all probably know that we were supposed to have a support tonight—old friends of ours, Y’jhimei, who unfortunately couldn’t make it. Y’jhimhei—” Luna thumped her chest, then raised a hand, “—this set’s for you. As for all of _you_...” Her smile sparkled, brighter than a spotlight. “We’ve got a _hell_ of a show to make up for it. Want to help us make them proud?”

Another roar kicked up from the crowd, and Prompto almost found himself swept up in the electricity of it, before the looming spectre of professionalism rested its hand on his shoulder once again.

WOR all turned to nod at each other, then Iris tapped her drumsticks. They hurtled into the next song with the same vicious fire, and Prompto reminded himself: _you have a job to do, dumbass._

Prompto raised the camera and started snapping. It was not, he quickly realised, going to be easy: where Lady A had mostly swayed onstage like a lounge singer, languid and controlled, Luna, Noct and Iris were far less sedate (he’d never have guessed Luna to have so much _energy_ in her). Still, he tried his best to capture the glance of light off the stars on Luna’s cheeks; the arc of Noct’s hair as he moved so fast that his face were barely visible, which, knowing Noct, might have been on purpose; Gladio, who discarded his quote-unquote ‘shirt’ only three songs in and flexed directly towards Prompto’s camera, to a chorus of screaming and whistling; Ignis, with his startling, dignified intensity, and the sharpness of his red glasses against his smoky colours.

Somehow, focusing on the fact that all four of them were hot as hell onstage made it easier to concentrate on his job.

And after not-so-long, Prompto found his heartbeat evening out, his mind decluttering. He lost himself in the simple joy of photography, letting instinct and practise take the helm, absorbed in thoughts of angles and depth and focus. Through his lens, World of Ruin became strokes on a canvas, birds mid-flight.

About halfway through the gig, they all turned to each other: Luna with reserved amusement, Gladio with significantly _less_ reserved amusement, and Noctis looking a little pained. “We know you guys must be missing Y’jimhei tonight,” Luna said. She wasn’t whispery anymore; her Tenebraen voice was powerful, gently commanding, and Prompto couldn’t help but notice how she could pull the crowd with only a word. In another life, she’d be a politician, or a queen. “So do we. So we’ve got a little something special just for you all. This next song is a Y’jimhei original: _Holy Summons_.”

They all reached for something on the floor, Ignis sighing, and placed it on their heads.

 _Gods._ Prompto laughed, louder than intended; he tried to stifle it with his hands, but too late. Noct flipped a middle finger at him, and Prompto, now fully drunk on that live music feeling, flipped one back.

They were cat-eared headbands, rainbow sequins flashing under the spotlights, and crushed into Noct’s _heavily_ sprayed hair, they looked utterly ridiculous. And on Ignis—Prompto bit down on a knuckle. There was something so fucking absurd about Ignis, who’d made Prompto feel two inches tall at that diner, who carried himself onstage with the severity of a master pianist performing _Ride of the Valkyries_ , having twin cat ears peering out of his pompadour. Prompto hadn’t touched a drop all night, but the sharp surreality of it made Prompto wonder, very briefly, if he was dreaming.

Gladio nudged Ignis with his elbow, and Ignis—

Smiled?

Prompto blinked, and it was gone, flickering away so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.

Then WOR were launching into the song—no time to keep wondering—and Prompto fumbled to catch back up.

He tried to focus again—to capture the flecks of stray rainbow light from the cat ears, like bokeh—and almost succeeded. But every now and then, he slipped, letting a perfect shot fall through his fingers (that one shot of Luna, leaning away from the mic with elation, eyes closed and the light catching her flyaway blonde hairs like a halo, like an angel delivering holy tidings— _gone_ , because he was two seconds too slow to pull the trigger).

He kept thinking, unbidden, about that fleeting break of sunlight in Ignis’ expression. Like a crack in the roof of a cave.

Or a phosphene. A burst of fanciful light.

_I probably imagined it._

But as he raised his viewfinder to catch Ignis in a moment of serenity between verses, he couldn’t help but wonder. About Ignis’ smile. If it sparkled like a vein of gold.

* * *

“Dude,” Prompto said, “that was _sick as hell_.”

Noct ducked his head, letting his collapsing hair hide the flush Prompto caught in his cheeks. “Thanks, Prom,” he said, fastening his guitar case. Apparently, for all his passion onstage, he still had that same streak of modesty he’d always had. “I’m glad you two had a good time, y’know? I don’t want this to just be a tedious job for you.”

Cindy snorted, helping Iris collapse her cymbals. “If y’all saw where he was workin’ before, trust me, ya wouldn’t worry ‘bout that.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Prompto said. “I love having panic attacks in the backroom of a Wholesale.”

Noct made a little arrested noise, like he weren’t sure if he should laugh at that (Cindy had no such reservations, her laughter trailing after her as she carted a rack tom out the door). Prompto looked at Ignis’ keyboard, unplugged but still erected onstage while the rest of them were already hauling their equipment back to the trailer they’d hooked up to the tour bus.

“Specs is just sorting something out with the owner,” Noct said. “He should be out soon.”

Prompto chewed his lip. He felt a little useless, standing there on the stage with his hands empty while WOR unpacked. “Hey, uh. Can I help with that?”

“His keyboard? Sure, I guess. Long as you're careful.”

Prompto, grateful for something to do, went to inspect the keyboard. It shouldn’t be too hard—he’d seen these things dismantled before, they were just a box on a stand, right?

Except, he realised, this thing also had what looked like _two_ keyboards stacked together, which seemed like double the odds of fucking up. He hesitated, hands hovering over the instrument. But maybe Ignis would appreciate the hand. Maybe he could recover a little, show Ignis he could pull his own weight. He lifted the smaller keyboard, tilting his head at it. It was a shiny, dark purple, like the designer purple of Ignis’ shirt, with silver detail. Subtle, regal. Like Ignis. Even when he was performing under Luna’s intense vocals, even when his shoulders were snapping to Iris’ drumbeat, even when his piercings caught the light and the skull winked from his tattoo under his half-open shirt.

“Ah, excuse me—”

A hand bumped Prompto’s shoulder, snapping him awake, sending a spike of electricity down his spine.

Prompto _squeaked_ , fumbling. He watched, in slow motion, as the smaller keyboard slipped from his hands and landed on top of the bigger one. Bounced a little, once. Then sat there.

Prompto stared at it, heart sinking, wondering how many paychecks that just cost him, then looked up at Ignis.

Ignis, standing just a _little_ too close for Prompto’s heart rate, wore a look of naked surprise. His delicate eyebrows were high on his marble face. Then they drew together. “Ah. Was that my keyboard?”

Prompto, once again, begged Titan to open the earth and swallow him up.

“I-I’m sorry, dude, I—I’ll pay for it! Uh. If it’s damaged, I—”

“Nonsense. Are _you_ al—”

But Prompto was already snatching up his camera bag, face burning fiercely, scurrying out the door almost too quickly to catch the flash of fresh surprise on Ignis’ face, now matched on Noctis’. “Sorry!” he called again over his shoulder, a little strangled, as he burst out into the cool night air and hurried back to the tour bus.

He realised, when he got there (after sputtering a half-assed excuse to Cindy) and tossed his camera equipment onto his bunk, that he had no idea how sturdy a keyboard was supposed to be.

He realised that a professional probably would’ve _not_ freaked out and run off like a spooked kid, just because he’d given the band manager even more reason to dislike him.

Prompto took out his contacts, collapsed back onto the bed, and groaned into his hands.

_So much for not making an ass of myself._

* * *

The next time Prompto was conscious, someone was tapping outside his bunk.

He blinked, bleary-eyed, at the blurred mass of colour in front of him. Despite going full teetotal yesterday, there was a lazy thudding behind his left eye. He mumbled, rubbing his face.

“... _yo._ Mister Photographer, open up.”

Prompto fumbled for his glasses, and the mass of colour settled into curtains, drawn across his bunk. Gradually, he realised the tapping was coming from the wall outside, and the voice (thick with sleepiness) belonged to Iris. He also realised the tour bus wasn’t moving. “Wuh,” he said.

“‘Bout time! I was this close to opening your curtains and pushing you out of bed.”

“‘M up, ‘m up,” he mumbled. “Hold on.”

He twitched back the curtains, peering out. Iris stood there in her pyjamas, short hair splayed at odd angles.

“Iggy’s already waiting outside,” she said, yawning. “He asked Libertus to park at this Crow’s Nest on the way, but we can’t stick around for too long, so you gotta be ‘ _prompt-o_ ’. His word. Fucking nerd. Anyway, I’m going back to bed.”

Prompto blinked at her, brain still rendering in. Then he blanched. “ _Wait—_ ” He reached out to grab her risk before she could retreat back to her bunk, almost tumbling out onto the floor. “Waiting for what now?”

“Oh, right. Iggy wants to have coffee with you, his treat, he said. You look cute with glasses, by the way.”

The events of last night trickled back: the gig, the keyboard, his overreaction. Or underreaction? What if he _had_ damaged the keyboard—what if WOR couldn’t play again tonight? He swallowed. “He didn’t, uh, look mad, did he?”

Iris snorted. “Uh, _Iggy?_ No. He looked like he was wearing a suit to a breakfast date and rolled out of bed looking perfect.” She patted his arm. “Good luck with that.”

Iris was back in her bunk with the curtains drawn before it could occur to Prompto to ask what, exactly, she meant by _good luck_. His mind had already stumbled ahead from _am I being fired_ to _Ignis in a suit_ to _shit, what am I supposed to wear?_ The last time he’d had a coffee date with someone, it was Cindy, and it was fine to wear sweatpants when you knew your friend was gonna rock up with engine grease on her shirt.

In the end, he pulled on his least-ripped jeans, denim jacket, and a beanie crushed over his blonde hair. Judging by the soft snuffling from the other bunks (and the fresh snoring already from Iris’), he and Ignis might have the only ones awake; he crept downstairs as quietly as he could and stepped out of the tour bus, which was parked in a lay-by opposite, sure enough, a diner.

And Ignis was there, exactly as Iris said. It wasn’t _quite_ a suit, rather a dark suit jacket, unbuttoned over the same turtleneck from yesterday. But it still looked unfair on him. His hair fell softly on his head, not styled as it was yesterday, but even _that_ looked designer. Prompto once again wondered what it would be like to touch it, and shoved his cold hands into his pockets.

Ignis looked up. “Mr Argentum?”

Prompto shuffled from foot to foot. He didn’t _seem_ annoyed, but… “Yeah. Hi. Good morning.”

“Good morning. My apologies, I realise it’s early, but, well, we were passing this particular diner, and I wasn’t sure when we might have another opportunity to speak in private. Not without falling behind schedule.”

Prompto winced. “If—if this is about the keyboard, I can pay for that! I mean, probably, I—how much does keyboard repair cost?”

“Goodness, no,” Ignis said. He looked surprised again. “My keyboards are sturdier than that, I assure you. I only wanted to talk, and I’m sure you’ve realised by now that a tour bus is not the most private place for a conversation.”

Prompto stared back at him. “Talk?” he said dumbly.

“Well. Rather, I wish to apologise. I…” Ignis cleared his throat. “I believe we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Entirely my own fault, of course.”

Huh?

Prompto kept staring, but Ignis seemed to be patiently waiting for an answer. Finally, he managed, “Oh.” Then, “Oh, uh, it’s—it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

“Regardless.” Ignis shook his head. “Allow me to make it up to you. This particular diner brews fairly good coffee, and I believe I could do with the caffeine. Is that alright?”

Prompto’s heart was starting to jackhammer against his ribs. “Sure? he said, which was better than _am I being punked right now_.

Frankly, he’d been so caught up trying to conjure a frantic defense, the idea of Ignis taking him on an honest-to-god coffee date felt like a total blindside. Anything he’d prepared to say fell tumbling from the window.

“Excellent. After you.”

Despite the cool air, Prompto’s ears felt warm; he tried to act nonchalant as he and Ignis walked to the diner, sneaking little glances out of the corner of his eye at Ignis’ Roman profile and wintergreen eyes. When they reached the door, Ignis stepped ahead.

“Allow me,” Ignis said, holding the door open.

And, okay. Prompto wasn’t one to swoon at outdated chivalry. But Ignis had _no business_ looking like a charming rogue from black-and-white 40s romance movie doing it. The last thing Prompto needed was to clutch his skirts and faint like silver screen belle—and Ignis didn’t even seem _aware_ of it.

“Thanks,” Prompto said, trying _very hard_ to pretend he wasn’t blushing as he ducked into the diner’s warmth. “Hey, uh, how did you…”

“My eyesight is profoundly impaired, but I can still detect vague shapes and colours.” It rolled off Ignis’ tongue too easily, rehearsed.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Well. If Ignis could see the red in his face, at least he could fake that it was the cold.

Prompto spotted, on the way in, a familiar face nursing a hot drink in a far booth—Crowe, one of the bus drivers. A sharp-faced woman with a hyena grin who, upon introduction, slapped Prompto between the shoulderblades hard enough that he saw stars for a second. Probably taking the chance to take over from Libertus in the driver’s seat. He considered waving, then vetoed it; judging by her expression, Crowe looked as liable to murder another person as much as she was to murder a coffee right now, which might just be her default morning state.

Ignis and Prompto found a booth, and a waiter came to take their order: one black coffee and one milkshake, which probably wasn’t strictly breakfast menu, but Ignis didn’t question it and sugar had always worked better than caffeine.

And there he was, once again, sat across from Ignis in a diner’s booth. Still fidgeting, still nervous. But Ignis looked a little softer now, and Prompto wondered if he was doing that on purpose.

Maybe it was because he’d just seen Ignis onstage in rainbow cat ears.

He’d have to check his camera. He wasn’t sure he didn’t make that up.

Ignis cleared his throat, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to talk to you last night,” he said. Prompto was privately grateful at the choice to gloss over him running away like a twitchy animal, tail between his legs. “How did you enjoy the show?”

“O-oh! Yeah, it was. Really cool. I mean, I’ve _always_ loved live music, so—and, uh, I’ve seen a _lot_ of live bands. Except when I was saving for this camera, you know, I think I lived like a monk for about a year to afford it. LOKTON’s are expensive for a reason. But, yeah.” He scratched his neck. “That’s, uh, beside the point. Just, you guys were _great_. You don’t see a lot of live bands with that much energy, you know? And Luna, I mean, she could probably sing opera if she wanted. Wow. You guys got yourself a new fan.”

Oh Gods, he was rambling again.

But Ignis...didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he—

He—

He _smiled_.

“Well, many thanks for the glowing praise,” he said. “We certainly try. It’s funny that you should say that—Lunafreya _is_ classically trained. It makes quite the interesting sound, playing the sort of music we play. I trust Miss Aurum enjoyed herself as well?”

It was a quiet sort of smile. Reserved. Softening. A vein of gold.

Prompto stared at it. “Uh huh,” he breathed. _Sorbet_.

Ignis waited for another second. But it didn’t occur to Prompto to speak before Ignis finally cleared his throat again. “As I was saying,” Ignis continued. “I wished to apologise. It seems...well. Noctis seems to think I frightened you.”

 _That_ snapped him to attention. Prompto groaned, covering his face. “He didn’t say that,” he said, muffled.

“You’ll find he did. Noct has never been one for…tact.”

“Oh, I’m gonna—I mean, I’m _not!_ I’m not, uh. Scared, or anything. That’d be stupid, right?”

“Please, Mr Argentum. I’m not offended.”

Prompto peeked between his fingers; Ignis was tipping his head, patient. “You...aren’t?”

“Not at all. Merely embarrassed, I must admit. I didn’t intend to create such an intimidating first impression. If you don’t mind me asking, why _did_ I intimidate you?”

 _Holy Six._ Did he not know? Prompto lowered his hands in disbelief. “Uh. Dude, you kinda...at that diner, I got the feeling you were annoyed you even had to _be_ there. Like it was all a big inconvenience for you.”

“Ah.” Ignis’ brow furrowed. “I _am_ truly sorry. That was nothing to do with you at all. Or, rather, it was...many things _around_ you. Does that make sense?”

“Uh. No?”

Ignis pressed his mouth into a line, leaning his chin on his hands, as if contemplating sharing a secret. “The truth is,” he said slowly, “I was... _severely_ sleep deprived. Organising this tour has been quite taxing, you understand, and I hadn’t been looking after myself as well as I perhaps should have. And Noctis...he means well, but he doesn’t quite have my penchant for planning ahead. He can be a little—impulsive. So his choice to hire a photographer, with no prior warning to the rest of the band...I suppose it’s true that it _was_ another thing on my plate, but if anything, that is _Noct’s_ fault. Not yours. I apologise if I took that out on you. It wasn’t intended.”

Prompto gaped at him. “Wait,” he said. Then, “Wait. So you _weren’t_ fantasising about stabbing me with a fork the whole interview?”

“Good lord,” Ignis said, sitting up. “Of course not. Was it that bad?”

“Shit. Holy shit, I am so sorry.”

“Please, Mr Argentum, do _not_ apologise. The error was mine.”

Something loosened in Prompto’s chest: a knot of tension he hadn’t realised he’d been winding and winding. It released as a long, slow breath, then a slightly shaky laugh. “Oh Gods. Wow, I got _that_ wrong. Uh. I won’t tell Noct you said that, by the way. Blaming the poor guy when he’s not here to defend himself? Ouch.”

“I’m sure Noct’s ego would survive it.”

Prompto’s lip twitched upward. Then he looked down, twisting his leather bracelet, where his wrist tattoo poked out: a barcode tangled in vines. “That’s...good to hear, for real. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re kinda difficult to read, dude.”

“So I’ve heard.” Ignis sighed. “And...well. I _have_ heard something else that’s rather distressing lately…”

He leaned in, almost conspiratorial, looking deadly serious. Prompto blinked, leaning in too. “Heard what? Is everything okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis said with grave solemnity. “I’m afraid it might be terminal.”

“ _Terminal?_ ” Prompto’s eyes blew wide. “Are you—I mean—if it’s not my _business_ —”

“No, perhaps you could help me. You see, I was informed recently—to my great dismay, as you might imagine—that I have a _mean resting bitchface_.”

Prompto almost spluttered in Ignis’ face, leaning away sharply; he barked a too-loud laugh which turned a few heads, briefly, before the rest of the diner’s bleary-eyed morning inhabitants drifted back to their breakfasts. Ignis leaned back too, looking a little pleased with himself.

The waiter chose then to arrive with their drinks, and again Ignis thanked him, swigging his coffee. The milkshake was a little cold for the October chill, but Prompto went in with gusto anyway, grateful for the buzz of sugar straight to his brain to blast away the remaining cobwebs of leep.

It was so familiar, this scene: Ignis and Prompto settled into silence across a diner table. Only this time, the silence didn’t feel like a lead weight. It felt... _warm_ , even. Looking across at Ignis, he looked no less handsome than before. But maybe he looked a little less marble.

Prompto glanced up at Ignis through his eyelashes, swirling the milkshake with his straw. “Sooo… Ignis,” he said. The burst of butterflies in his stomach beat anxiously, but it was easier, this time, to find his voice; like Ignis’ small smile had been an ice pick to the air around them. Ignis glanced up. “I gotta admit, dude, you’re not exactly what I imagine when someone says punk rocker.”

Ignis made a soft sound, like a quiet laugh, which sent those butterflies a-flutterin’ even more. A smile _and_ a laugh. Damn. “You wouldn’t be the first to say so. Actually, I come from a musical background. My entire family is so inclined.”

“ _Wait._ Your parents are punk rockers? For real?”

Prompto tried to arrange it in his mind: a little Ignis (who looked a _lot_ like big Ignis, cheebokes and dress suit and all, only pint-sized) bouncing on the knee of a middle-aged, beer-bellied man in a mohawk and leather jacket. He nearly broke his brain trying.

“Oh, far from it,” Ignis said, with a touch of amusement. “My father was a _staunch_ devotee of classical music. I was raised on a steady diet of Liszt, Tchaikosvky, Chopin, and the like.” Prompto tried to nod along with the air of a guy who, oh yeah, _Chopin_ , that guy, ‘course he knows _Chopin_. What kinda dumbass wouldn’t know Chopin. “One of my earliest memories is of being sat at a piano, memorising _Für Elise_. I confess, I retain a fondness for the classics, though I typically only play them on my downtime these days. Or what scant little there is of it. So, like Lunafreya, I suppose I’m also classically trained.”

Ah. Yeah. Little Ignis in coat-tails at a grand piano made a _lot_ more sense to his brain. It also made something in his chest ache, like seeing a litter of sleepy puppies. Those long ones—Borzoi puppies—the kind you knew would one day sprout up like they’d been stuck in a taffy stretcher, once they grew into their paws.

“Damn,” Prompto said. Then made a noise, flapping his hands: “That’s not! A bad thing! It’s cool, actually. I mean, how often do you hear about a punk band with, like, a _classical_ background? It makes you stand out, in a good way! A really good way.”

“I certainly hope so. I confess, we certainly aren’t your typical _humble beginnings_ story, nor can we pretend to be in a bus like this. Nevertheless, I like to think mine and Lunafreya’s influence lends our music a certain unique flair. Frankly, if Noctis hadn’t approached me concerning his band, I might have allowed myself to be funnelled towards a career as a classical pianist. Perhaps such a career path would’ve earned me much greater acclaim.”

Ignis left the thoughtful silence to hang for a moment. Prompto hesitated. “But?”

And Ignis smiled at that. A more ironic smile than before, but still. Gods. Prompto could’ve bottled that smile and kept it. “Exactly,” he said. “ _But._ ” Ignis finished the dregs of his coffee; he did, come to think of it, look a little perkier now. He didn’t elaborate, however, instead saying: “What about you? Are you musically inclined at all?”

Prompto blinked. “Me?”

Ignis nodded.

“Um. I mean.” Prompto scratched his neck. “A little? I played some acoustic guitar back in high school, but I was always just fu— uh, messing around. It was never serious for me the way it was for Noct. I’ve always been better with a camera than anything.” He laughed a little sheepishly. “Not to, uh, brag or anything. But I’ve got a steadier hand than any professionally-taught photographer I know. Maybe that’s not much next to a degree or whatever. But you gotta find things to be proud of, right?”

“Of course.” Ignis tipped his head, considering. “I wonder. Unfortunately, I can’t fully enjoy your photography, but—perhaps I might hear you play sometime? I wonder how much musical skill you might’ve retained.”

Prompto blinked. “Uh. I guess I could try? I probably remember _some_ of it, y’know, from years ago, but—I’d be rusty as hell, dude, I’d probably offend every _real_ guitarist in a ten mile radius. Noct might _actually_ kick me off the bus and leave me on the side of a road like a puppy. Not sure you want that on your conscience.”

Ignis’ smile twitched into something a little playful. It was starting to get dizzying, to be honest. “Oh, well, Gods forbid I mark my conscience. I suppose we’d have to find somewhere private for you to play.”

 _Sweet Six._ “Ha, uh. Good luck with that on a crowded bus.” Prompto laughed. “But for real, I’ll consider it. For, you know, if you guys ever get bored and want someone to throw tomatoes at.”

“Your sacrifice is appreciated in advance.”

Something beeped—Ignis’ phone. He sighed. “Ah. There’s our cue—we should return to the bus if we’re to make it to Crestholme in time.”

“Oh! Right.”

Prompto grabbed his milkshake to go while Ignis counted change (and Prompto debated, briefly, on whether to fight Ignis over splitting the cheque, but decided not to risk blowing a good thing). But as they stood, Prompto hesitated.

“Hey, Ignis. You can drop the whole _Mr Argentum_ thing, alright? My friends call me Prompto. Or Prom, whatever you like. ‘Sides, it’d be weird if I weren’t calling you _Mr Scientia_ too. Though we’d just sound like doofs from an old spy flick.”

Ignis made that soft sound again, adjusting his sleeve cuff. He looked down at it, away from Prompto, as he took a moment to answer. “Alright,” he said, deliberate. “Prompto, then. I’m very pleased to make your reacquaintance.”

He’d held out his hand, and Prompto’s heart skipped back up to his throat. He prayed the man couldn’t feel the spike in his pulse when he took it, his smile a little shaky.

“Likewise. Dude.”

Ignis’ hold on his hand was gentle; his fingertips had mild calluses. For one brief, _insane_ moment, Prompto thought that this might’ve been a Victorian drama—that Ignis might have raised Prompto’s knuckles to his lips, Darcy at the ball.

He didn’t, of course. But as he let go of Prompto’s hand (and Prompto tried _not_ to let the spark of fanciful disappointment get to him) and moved to step past him, he raised his hand and squeezed Prompto’s shoulder. It was a touch so delicate Prompto might have imagined it, but he started anyway. “I’m glad you’re here with us, Prompto. I know you’ll make a fine addition to the tour. You go on ahead—I’ll get Crowe.”

Prompto, milkshake held loose in his hand, just swallowed and nodded. When Ignis kept going, Prompto lingered there for a moment—in the warmth radiating from the point on his shoulder where Ignis had brushed it, in the cosiness of the diner in early morning, in the warmth of Ignis' small smile. In the lightning-bolt realisation that somewhere along the way, he’d shucked the knot of anxiety in his chest entirely without noticing, replaced by a different sort of electric hum. Not just relief, that this man actually liked him. _Excitement_.

The realisation that he was about to spend six weeks living his own fucking dream with some of the coolest people he'd met.

And the memory of Ignis' velvet voice: _perhaps I might hear you play sometime._ His smile, like a secret.

Maybe Prompto could get him to laugh again.

**Author's Note:**

> i know nothing about music or photography lmao
> 
> artists i listened to while writing this beast were pvris, black honey, ötzi, dream wife, the regrettes, dead sara, peach club, potty mouth, big joanie, AND nova twins (all woman-fronted or nonbinary-fronted punk / rock / post-punk bands!)
> 
> thank you so much to @BigDykeEnergy on ao3 for being a wonderful beta!! you should check out her fic if you're a kh fan, she's a FANTASTIC writer
> 
> up next in part 2: fluff, flirting, the holiday season, and more purple prose about rock band outfits!
> 
>  **edit (4/1/21):** PLEASE LOOK at [this super cute art](https://jooliart.tumblr.com/post/639346169932365825/) jooliart did based on this fic i love it :'0
> 
>  **fic title:** hey heartbreaker (dream wife)  
>  **ch1 title:** lovesick (dead sara)


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